Miracle
by theothergranger
Summary: Wendla makes a daring escape from the abortionist and is rescued by her bestfriend from childhood, Ilse. The story follows the ensuing drama and antics. Rated M for suicide, sex, and all things Spring Awakening.
1. Run Like Hell

**A/N: Love ****Spring Awakening****! Had the chance to see it in February and only just now did I feel like writing something. With this story, I don't know how long it will be, I aim to explore the possibilities if Wendla escaped the abortionist. Moritz, however, is regrettably dead as dead can be.**

**Please let me know what you think!**

******"Cause tomorrow and today  
Are only here so long  
When there's nothing left to say  
I hear that life moves on"**

**- "You are Goodbye" by Holly Conlan**

_Melchior, I'm so sorry. Mama took me to the doctor, our child is gone,_ were the only words written on the mangled scrap of paper Wendla held in her trembling hand as she tripped over the threshold of the cellar door into the dark alleyway outside one of her town's less respectable taverns. Her hand scraped against a bit of exposed brick that made up the freezing ground, but at this point nothing could stop her now, and she could have cared even less that she was wearing no shoes or stockings. Wendla was running like a bat out of hell, and the biting cold whipped at her face and exposed arms and legs, but she did not let it slow her down. Behind her she could hear the enraged shouts of the "doctor" and his assistant, but Wendla determinedly ignored him as she skittered around a corner towards the entrance of the alley her mama had led her down earlier. The bitch. With her head feeling woozy she crashed into one of the metal trash cans lining the entrance, not stopping like she normally would have when she knocked it over. It had never felt so good to run, never in her entire life had the feeling of her legs carrying her away from a pursuer felt so amazing. The cold air was making her chest ache, and when she caught her arm on the wall as she rounded the corner out of the alley she only let it slow her down slightly. She had to get away, that was all she had to do. Get her note to Melchior, then if she was, she thought, she would perhaps not fight so much. Snow had begun to fall earlier in the evening, and there were piles of it accumulating on what was already there. She barreled through it, biting back a hysterical laugh as she heard the assistant bang into the same trash can she had knocked over only moments before. Her arm stung where he had tried to jab her with a needle, to sedate her, to calm her, only he had not succeeded. Upon feeling the needle filled with what was intended to make her sleep Wendla had dived off of the makeshift operating table, kicking the doctor in the face. A thin trickle of blood ran from the mark, the needle had dragged down her arm as she took off, and whatever he had put in her was beginning to make her feel sleepy and uncoordinated.

Now on the main street Wendla stopped, if only for a moment, and put her hands on her knees to catch a few ragged breaths. She knew she must not stop for long or she'd be caught, and when the cold air made her lungs ache even more she screwed up her face and, ignoring the burning in her legs, resumed running once more with a powerful burst of speed. The only thing she could think was a rhythmic repetition of "_my child… my child… my child."_ The words kept her legs moving in a steady, but panicked beat. The hour was late, it must have been, for there was barely anyone on the street, but the sound of heavy footfalls and angry breathing right behind her propelled her forward even faster, and when she reached the end of the street she flew around the corner, her feet flying out from under her as she hit a patch of treacherous, unseen ice. She braced herself for the worse, like hitting her head, but instinctively, and much to her surprise, her arms curled protectively over her stomach, locking in a tight cage of protection for her unborn child. She came down hard on her elbow, causing pain to jar up her arm, but with a cry of relief she sprang back up, preparing to continue her run. The pain ran up her arm and she felt she might be sick, but at least she could still move! What happened next shocked her the most.

The doctor's assistant rounded the corner, and having seen Wendla fall, slowed down so he could maintain his footing, but as he did so his foot caught on the drain that was not quite covered with snow. Wendla couldn't stop her jaw from dropping as if by the grace of God the man's foot caught and sent him sprawling forward, where he landed at her feet. With a growl his fingers closed around her pale, exposed ankle, causing her to squeal and lash out at him, clipping him in the chin.

"No!" she screamed as he clung to the hem of her dress, pulling her down to the glossy ice. She was screaming and kicking for all she was worth, while he was growled and began to prepare another syringe. He was a big, burly man, and Wendla had always been a bit on the small side, but she managed to keep him from pulling her into a grasp that she would not be able to escape. She flailed furiously at him, howling like a wounded animal when he managed to hold one of her arms still so he might inject a sedative into her. She imagined what her mama would say about the scene she was causing in the gutter. With a man and not wearing stockings, no less! But the impending sense of everything being over kept the needle just a few inches far enough away from her. Growing tired of the girl's fight, the assistant stood, one hand still closed firmly around her ankle. She was almost upside down and still caterwauling with alarming force and volume. She was a pretty little thing, he thought, and it was a shame she might not live through her surgery. With a tired laugh he aimed for a spot just on the back of her smooth, exposed thigh and prepared to inject her with an very high dose of morphine. At the last moment, however, she managed to swing a fist up and into his groin. He dropped her on her head with a wounded scream and turned and vomited on the road. Wendla's face registered only the shock of being free, and with her dress even more mangled, she picked herself off the ground and resumed her sprint down the street, cries of _"freedom" _bouncing around inside her panicked mind. One of her hands went to her stomach, and with a grimace of satisfaction, she picked up speed.

XXX

Refusing another drink, Ilse moved towards the entrance of the tavern in her home town with only a slight sway in her step. She had decided to stick around after Moritz's funeral, she wanted to see if there was anyone else who might need her help, any one of her old childhood friends. Ilse ran a hand through her short hair, tugging at it in slight exasperation. She still blamed herself for what Moritz had done to himself. She could not help but think what could have been different if she had only run from him at a slightly slower pace, if she had demanded he walk her home no matter what. No, instead she had given in to the childish impulses she had taught herself to avoid, and she had run like a puppy that had been scolded by a cross and dismissing master.

The cold air burned her now smoke-filled lungs, there had been many lit pipes in the tavern, but it did help to calm her spinning head. She was glad, also, for the pair of too big shoes she had acquired somewhere she could not quite name for lack of remembrance.

Her thoughts drifted to Melchior and Wendla as they always did. They had been two of her best friends, and now she could not help but think she was letting them down tremendously. Melchior had been sent off to a reformatory school and she had not seen Wendla on the street in almost two months, though their dual absence alarmed her the most. She had checked with Wendla's other friends, Martha, Thea, and Anna, but they had not seen the girl anywhere either. Ilse knew Wendla had to have been shocked my Mortiz's death, but it seemed unlikely that her parents would allow her to disappear from public for so long. She had gone by her house a few times, but the shutters had always been drawn, no matter the weather or time of day. She wrapped her arms around her thin body to keep out the chill, but she was unwilling to go return indoors. The world was so peaceful, so quiet, and though she was as much of an atheist as Melchior she could not stop herself from muttering a quiet prayer of concern for her friends.

"Please, keep them safe, wherever they may be, whatever they're doing-" she said, the breath leaving her body in puffs that flew into the air in front of her face, only to disappear in moments. Her thoughts and sentiments were cut off when the door banged open behind her, accompanied by the din from within the tavern.

"Ilse!" cried a man named Leon, gesturing for her to return. He held a pint of something in one hand and had the other stretched towards her. Ilse rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"One moment, Leon!" she said, her voice chipper as she could force it to be. She saw him shrug, his tall, skinny figure illuminated from behind by the firelight from the boisterous tavern. When the door slammed shut again she turned back to the street, surveying the quiet shops on the other side. _It must be what, one or two in the morning?_ she asked herself. She took a step towards a small pile of snow closer to the edge of the road. She closed her eyes and spun once, fascinated by the cold air that swirled around her in response, stirring flakes of snow onto her face. With a serene smile she surveyed the heap of precipitation in front of her, considering for the briefest moment her jumping into it. Of course, if she did that she would be cold for the rest of the night, and even she had to be practical sometimes. However, something in the white bank struck her as odd. There was a single, bare footprint embedded in it, and it was beginning to be covered by the snow. Ilse made a face. _How odd…_ she thought, her thoughts beginning to trail off until she noticed another print right in front of it, equally as small and sloppy, as if the person had been running. There was also a faint stain of read in both the prints. Now she was intrigued, and she decided to follow the prints, as they seemed to round into the small dip between the tavern and the neighboring store. It was not quite an alley, but there were all trash bins and other strange things stored in it.

"Hello?" Ilse called, squinting into the darkness. The thought of getting Leon to come with her did not even cross her mind until she was well into the miscellaneous bits of hardware and garbage. From behind a spare sign for the hardware store the alley belonged to protruded a small, bloody foot. Ilse bit back a gasp and raced forward, kneeling the instant she was close enough to touch the person. She decided it was either a small child or a young girl, and when she threw the sign to the ground she realized she was right in her assumption.

"Oh, Wendla!" she muttered, biting her lip to keep back tears. Even unconscious she looked absolutely petrified. Her light brown dress, which had once been long, Ilse guessed, was ripped jaggedly, exposing her thin legs to the cold. There was a dark purple bruise blooming across the elbow of her right arm, which was bent awkwardly beneath her. Her left arm cradled her stomach, which seemed slightly bigger than the last time Ilse had… Ilse's thoughts stopped. "This is why you've been hiding! Wendla, you foolish girl!" she muttered at her friend's lifeless form. Wendla's dark brown hair fanned out behind her on the bright white snow, and even as she lay there unconscious her teeth chattered at the cold. Ilse tugged on her, rolling her over completely. Wendla's arm fell limply from the protective, but weak, grasp on her abdomen, and Ilse could see a scrap of paper. She felt a sense of foreboding as she pried it gently from Wendla's hand. She uncrumpled the missive, from the look of it Wendla had put it to Hell and back, and read it quickly. Her jaw dropped and she let out an audible gasp of fury. It turned to a shriek, she knew the supposed doctor Wendla wrote of, she had her fair share of friends that had gone to see him. Discrete, reputable, and deadly more often than not. By the look of it Wendla was still with child, yes, Ilse was sure the baby was unharmed. She couldn't help but curse Wendla for her naivety, but she also knew she had little time to sit and cry over the almost spilled milk. Wendla was safe, away from her mother, away from the man who might kill her, but this was only for now. The only man with a bigger reputation for butchery was his assistant, a man no one really knew by face, only his height was ever identifiable. Six foot six, head and shoulders, and Ilse doubted he would allow a patient to escape.


	2. Billowing Embers

**Please R&R! Let me know what you think, and thank you to those who reviewed the 1st chapter! I actually quite like writing for SA! I just want to know if I'm doing any good at it. **

**"What will it take to show you that it's not the life it seems?  
I'm not okay,  
I've told you time and time again you sing the words but don't know what it means,  
I'm not okay"**

**- "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" by My Chemical Romance  
**

When Wendla awoke she was acutely aware of a pounding in her head, but what she focused on straight away on her stomach. The tiny, almost inconsequential swell of it was there, and while this had been her curse for the last three months, she had never been happier to feel the skin that was beginning to stretch over her thin frame to make a place for the baby. She clutched her stomach tightly, still unaware of her surroundings, but totally blissful.

"I'm sorry!" she moaned at her stomach, ignoring the stab of pain in her right arm. There was a sharp tutting noise from behind her that caused Wendla to almost jump out of her skin. She gasped and whirled around to the best of her ability, as she was laying down, she realized. Her motherly tunnel vision subsided immediately, and she saw a dimly lit room with a great deal of wooden furniture and a blazing fire. The walls were a plain, white brick and on the dark wood floor there was a threadbare, red rug stretched in front of the fire. Most shocking of all, however, was the sight of Ilse, standing in the middle of the rug, looking very anxious and extremely grumpy.

"Wendla!" she barked, noticing the other girl was now awake. Wendla smiled sheepishly, offering Ilse only a small shoulder shrug.

"Hello, Ilse." She said, her voice strangely soft and small, Ilse thought. Wendla seemed frightened, like some of the life in her was muted, or perhaps, but hopefully not, gone. Something was different about her. She shrank away from Ilse when she approached her, which made Ilse's eyes narrow. Ilse was furious with her, mostly for what she considered to be blatant stupidity, but the anger was infinitely diminished by the expression of pleading worry that darted across Wendla's small, childish face. Ilse sat at the foot of Wendla's bed, fixing her with a studious gaze. Wendla returned the stare, her eyes wide and paranoid, searching for the motive behind Ilse's presence. It dawned on Ilse that she expected to reprimanded or struck, for the same doe-eyed look of horror had been Ilse's constant expression for a long time.

"Why don't you tell me what's been going on?" Ilse asked softly, closing the space between them. They had been the best of friends since they were little, and whenever Ilse made it into to town to see her they picked up their inseparable friendship up where they had last left it. The last time Wendla had seen Ilse, however, had been Moritz's funeral. Four days later she had found out she was with child, and from there her life had spiraled completely downwards and out of control.

"I don't think I can," she said solemnly. Ilse squeezed her eyes shut to keep from saying something bitingly back to Wendla, who was looking at her with an unnervingly stony expression. "Oh, don't look like that." Wendla snapped a moment later. Ilse opened her eyes and smiled apologetically at Wendla.

"Sorry, but you know you can tell me anything!" she replied quickly, averting what could quickly turn into one of their foolish, immature scraps. She tried not to laugh, remembering the gravity of the situation they were currently in. "I suppose it can wait until later, the whole story, I mean," she said, quickly, waving her hand to shoo the thought out of both their minds. She grabbed Wendla's free, uninjured arm and held fast. "But Wendla, really, I need to know why your mother was taking you to… that man." She said with contempt. Wendla tensed and Ilse could see her jaw set in anger, clenched tightly to hold back ill-meant words, as she had learned to do as a young child. Wendla had gotten in trouble quite a bit when she was a small child, always saying things she shouldn't say or saying things at the wrong time, and as she matured she had learned to hold her tongue. Like a good little girl. She turned her head as she thought of what to say, and Ilse studied her pale, thin face. Wait… thin face. Too thin. While Wendla had always had a delicate face, she had additionally always had soft, round cheeks, but now they looked haggard and the bones stuck out in an unusually angular manner. There seemed to be a light dusting of purple and blue, more concentrated in some areas, that was slowly fading from her visage. Ghostly bruises that were just beginning to disappear.

"Ilse?" Wendla asked cautiously, aware that she had been staring at her. In fact, Ilse was not so much staring as she was gaping in concern and horror. "Ilse, what!" she barked, shaking their connected hands. Ilse jerked out of her reverie and apologized quickly, telling Wendla to continue, but Wendla's tone was less warm and much less receptive. "You already know why I was going there. And I'm almost certain you know who my accomplice was." She drawled, intentionally belligerent, staring at the ceiling as she became conscious of her reluctance to speak Melchior's name. She mentally kicked herself for merely thinking the name she had so long concentrated on forgetting.

"But your mother! I'm sure she frowned upon the situation, but to take you for an abortion!" Ilse snarled, not stopping, even as she saw her friend flinch at her raised volume. "Disapproving, yes, but stupid? Careless? Did she not know that you could just as likely left in a box! More than likely!" She was yelling now, and Wendla's eyes brimmed with tears. She withdrew her hand, looking likely to begin sobbing. Ilse was surprised more by what Wendla did next than she would have been by dramatic hysteria induced by her tirade. Wendla, always the one to cry before making her argument, began to speak.

"Why? Why do you think!" she said, looking disgusted. "Because I disgraced the family name with my stupid, whorish behavior, apparently!" she spat, smacking the bed. "No one bothered to tell me that sex resulted in children!" she snapped, thinking for a moment. "No one even bothered to tell me what sex is!" she added, looking exasperated. "And because I blindly committed what my moronic parents consider to be the worst sin, they have treated me like a fucking animal since they found out I was pregnant." she growled, fixing Ilse with a steady look. Ilse sighed heavily, although she was internally quite amused with Wendla's foul language.

"I'm sorry, Wendla." She said finally, meeting her friend's dark green eyes, looking at them truly for the first time that evening. They seemed to be almost blank, and for a moment, forgetting the recent outburst, she wondered if Wendla was even aware what was going. She looked so very tuned-out.

"It's fine," Wendla muttered, taking Ilse's hand back up. "I owe to you my most sincere of apologies, I am not myself." She said, staring at the sheets. Ilse watched with confusion as she saw the ember of Wendla's usual tenacity billow and nearly extinguish right before her eyes. She shook her head.

"It's fine," she repeated. "Now let me look at your arm, and perhaps your head too. I shouldn't have disturbed you when you need rest. Leon should be here in a moment with your food." She muttered, turning from Wendla. Ilse hated to admit she was afraid for Wendla. She hated to admit there was a reason for her to be.

**Wendla's acting out of character can be attributed to recent traumatic events. More of this will be explained later, but I just wanted to say something before I got yelled at.**

**Hope you enjoyed, please let me know what your thoughts were!**


	3. Pursuit, Lust, Prison

**Well, here we go! 3rd chapter! It gets kind of dark at the end, so be ready for that. Thank you to those who read and reviewed, please do the same for this chapter! It's longer, and you get to hear from the abortionist and his assistant, Ilse and Leon, and then Wendla tells her story at the end. I really want to know what you think! Please forgive all typos and errors, I'm like, brain dead at the moment.**

******"No one ever thanks me when I'm done,  
How self-absorbed people can be!"**

**- "Thankless Job" from Repo! The Genetic Opera**

"Did you find her?" asked the Doctor, drying his hands with a dingy, white rag. His assistant, a hulking, fearsome man stood across the operating table from him, looking bashful. The Doctor placed the instruments he had just finished washing on a nearby tray. "Answer me!" he commanded.

"No, I didn't. She kicked me in-" grumbled the other man, wincing as he remembered the swift, painful strike to the groin.

"I don't care _where _she kicked you! I don't care how _hard_ she kicked you!" the Doctor spat, slamming the rag down onto the table. "Her mother is going to be expecting her back as soon as possible!"

"Just tell her she's dead then!" said the assistant, his lip curling in a sneer. "What's this world without one more whore? Better, I'd say." The Doctor nodded, but rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"And the body? The Bergmann family is a well respected one, and they would want a good Christian burial for any of their daughters. For posterity's sake in the least!" grumbled the Doctor, speaking in a more introverted manner as he sought possible solutions for the current predicament, lest his failure become known.

"Well what would you suppose I do?" replied the assistant sharply. He had never failed like this, and he was also searching for any possible chance to recapture the little slut who had escaped him. He did not aim to please the Doctor with his success when it did come to him, rather himself. He would not be slighted another chance at victory by the young girl. What made it more humiliating was that she had been drugged already before making her escape, and she was not big enough to put up any sort of fight.

"I want you to find her! Search the alleys, search bars. She surely has friends, but she wouldn't return home. She's not stupid." The Doctor said, wrinkling his nose in contemplation.

"I'll start with her friends' homes. I've seen her with Herr Bessel's daughter, Martha. He'd be more than happy to oblige me in helping to find the girl," Mused the assistant. "And if he doesn't want me to, he owes me a little favor for keeping the father of Martha's dead child a secret, imagine what'd happen if it got out it was him. He'll help."

"You sicken me," said the Doctor shaking his head, though he smiled triumphantly at the other man. "Now hurry, I want this over with as soon as possible." The assistant gave a quick bow of compliance before turning and hurrying back up the cellar stairs, intent on reaching the house of his acquaintance, Herr Bessel, within the hour.

**X**

**"I need a hand with my worrisome heart  
I would be lucky to find me a man  
Who could love me the way that I am  
With this here worrisome heart"**

**- "Worrisome Heart" by Melody Gardot**

"Ilse, she isn't hurt that badly. Just let her sleep." Leon murmured, pressing his lips into Ilse's bare shoulder. They had retired into Leon's room in his extensive apartment. Ilse knew he was a rich boy who played a stylish pauper, complete with the scruffy appearance and Bohemian ideals. He pretended to be poor most of the time, denying any true money and decorating his flat as if he had none, but the fact that he currently lived in an apartment with three bedrooms he could not hide. Wendla was in the larger of the two guest rooms on the other side of the flat, while Leon's other faux pauper friend Damien occupied the smaller, but better furnished of the two rooms. However, Ilse stayed with him because of the comfort, the warmth, and the resources it afforded her. Leon was not half bad either, and with the Wendla issue at hand, it was the safest place for her friend. What she did not enjoy however, was the fact that she could not speak to Leon about what she saw happening to her poor friend. Well, she could speak to him, but he would not comprehend what she meant when she said Wendla had changed in a manner most alarming. Only Mortiz or Melchior could know what she truly meant, but they were both gone. Wendla's other friends had rarely seen the true, bright spirit of their companion, and Ilse felt suddenly alone knowing she was the only one who saw the change.

"Leon, please." She muttered distractedly, shifting on his gigantic bed, listening intently for sounds coming from elsewhere in the apartment. She tensed her shoulders to push him away, and she heard him groan in annoyance, rustling the sheets as he leaned back into his pillows. He was wearing only his dark brown cotton pants that he had worn earlier when they left for the pub, and he was still quite tipsy. Ilse was dressed in a light blue slip that Leon had recently bought for her. He liked to buy her things, but she rarely wore them. She refused to depend on anyone but herself. Leon moved again across the bed, wrapping and arm around her waist, pulling her backwards so he could look at her.

"What's wrong?" he asked, tilting his head, his grey eyes piercing her own dark blue ones. She laid back reluctantly against the pillow, facing him with a stern expression, he leaned forward and kissed her on the nose. She sighed.

"I'm just worried." He kissed her neck, and she backed away, fighting back a giggle. She knew she needed to keep control of the situation, nothing could happen to Wendla because she was distracted.

"You're worried about Damien and your friend?" he said knowingly, tracing a circle across her thin collarbone. "I get it, he's a pervert, but she's fine!" he said, smiling crookedly at her before kissing her neck once more, staring mischievously at her. Ilse closed her eyes. It was times like this she realized Leon might actually love her, but she knew she could never return to him the sentiment. There had only been one for her, but he was gone. Love had been replaced by lust, and while she felt part of her grow colder and colder with every passing day, she continued on the path that was slowly destroying her soul. If she had lost her real purpose, she rationalized, why not enjoy herself.

"How can you be sure!" she snapped, causing him to laugh at her. She knew Damien was more than a pervert, she had heard talk from girls who knew him. He was known for having his fun, whether it was invited or not, and she refused to subject the terrified, currently unconscious Wendla to his prowess. They sat in silence, Leon staring at her while she breathed testily at him.

"I can be because he's not here. He's gone to France for the week!" he said, smiling conspiratorially at her. Ilse shook her head at him, smacking his shoulder lightly.

"Why must you torment me!" she lamented, allowing herself to be kissed again. This time Leon kissed a small, thin scar on her cheek that was near her mouth. He then kissed a longer one on her throat, simultaneously sliding the thin slip the rest of the way off her shoulders. He loved her scars. It was good someone did.

**X**

**"Sleep, with the light on.  
And keep the loneliness away;  
I feel the darkness anyway.  
And I, wish for the dawn."**

**- "Serial Sleepers" by House of Heroes**

Wendla woke with a start once more, this time finding the room totally empty, though a hot fire still blazed in the nearby fireplace. She sighed, relieved. Her eyes were wild and her heart seemed like it might leap from her chest, she had dreamed of her parents. She drew her knees to her chest, hugging them there, ignoring the jabbing pain of her bony knees against her thinned out chin. _My parents_, was her first thought. _Fuck them_, was her second. She didn't know if she hated them now, was hardly sure she _could_ hate, but what she felt was close enough. When they had learned she was pregnant, with Melchior Gabor's child, no less, they had locked her in her room, shuttered her in tightly to keep everyone out, not speaking to her for a week. A week with just herself had thrust Wendla into a dark, sinister place that frightened her. For the whole week she focused on thinking of nothing, terrified to imagine what she might run into should she choose to face her thoughts. For the first few days she thought their anger would soon subside, but after no food and no communication she began to fear she would be their prisoner for eternity. At the end of the week she was positively starving, and when her parents finally opened the door the light from their oil lamp practically blinded her, but luckily it was night outside. From then on they would allow her to join them in the house at night, though she wished she was allowed to stay in her room. Only her instinctual need for food caused her to leave her room, and when she did she would be forced to sit and pray with her parents for hours, until her knees felt like they might shatter. She was supposed to pray for guidance, salvation, the death of her child. If she shifted or did _anything_ wrong while she was outside her room her father would fly into a rage and strike her. This had shocked her at first, but her darkened state of mind told her the circumstances called for it. Her parents hated her, they called her a worthless whore and any other degrading name at every turn, they fed her rarely as possible. She was bruised and sore constantly, and she had been forced to beg for the forgiveness of the Lord so much she had become an atheist, but she still prayed on the behalf of her son or daughter. Inside her she felt a fierce motherly protection towards the unborn child, and so she would always shield her stomach from the violence wrought by her parents. Her father was a prosperous business man, almost predator-like in his profession. He always got his way, and if he did not, he was known to lash out harshly and determinedly, seeking to achieve his goal no matter what. People hated her father, and now she knew why. Even if she did nothing wrong her father would beat her for past indiscretions. He was not the loving, caring, adored man she had known her entire life. He was a stranger now, their home was a prison.

After a month of hellish existence she tried to escape.

She failed. She thought her father might kill her. When he failed she tried to finish the deed herself, using the razor that was supposed to aid in her escape. She was almost gone when her mother entered the room.

It took almost two months to finally think of Melchior. She hated him for this, but at the same time her heart ached and throbbed with the sorrow of not seeing him. She became certain she loved him, and when the pain of their separation grew too great, she tried once more to kill herself, this time with pieces of broken glass from a picture frame that had once housed a family photo. She wrapped the frame in her pillow to break it silently, and her heart soared for the first time in weeks when she dragged it across the pale, exposed flesh of her arm. Again. Again. Again. Things grew delightfully dark and Wendla smiled, though it lasted for only a second, for it tired her muscles. She apologized to her child, she loved them, but she had to do this. There was a distant, muffled crash and a bellowed insult. She was already floating.

The flight ended unceremoniously with a reprimand from her doctor, the man who had sentenced her to a life term of abuse under her parent, and a slap from her mother. She faded then, almost totally. She didn't pay attention to what was going on, barely slept, but was hardly there.

Two days into the third month of her imprisonment she was removed in the dead of night from her room by her mother. She had a solution. Wendla hoped it was a properly done execution. On the way to the abortionist's office she passed Melchior's house, and something soared within her, flaring up so quickly that it hurt. She was blinded, burned, inspired by this strange feeling inside of her, and she realized it was hope. Hope for a new life with him, with their child. And so she began to imagine, what she had forgotten to do for so long, and she imagined a world of freedom, love. She wanted it suddenly, a new found obsession that she would not be denied. And like her father, when she wanted something, she would do anything to get it.

On the bed in Leon's apartment she began to sob silently. She couldn't tell Ilse, not yet. She had to hide the wounds on her wrist that had just begun to heal in some places, just begun to scar. She had to find Melchior. She would die trying.

**So, there you have it! Hope you enjoyed it, please let me know what you think. I think I did a pretty good job portraying Wendla's depression, so let me know if you agree! I've always felt that while she was naïve, she clearly capable of deep thought. **


	4. Visitation

**Hello and sorry for the long time between updates! I have been so, so, so busy and haven't had a chance to really sit down and work on this. I could only imagine to get some really stupid stuff down, so I guess I was also suffering from writer's block. **

**This chapter hasn't even been edited, I just wanted to get it up because I've kept people waiting for so long and I don't want to leave people waiting for longgggg periods of time :) **

**As always, please let me know what you think of this chapter and the story as a whole!**

**"A face that awakes when I close my eyes  
A face watches every time I lie  
A face that laughs every time I fall  
And watches everything"**

**- "Papercut" by Linkin Park**

Ilse rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around her as she buried her face in Leon's slowly rising and falling chest. His arm curled around her subconsciously. She felt maybe she should get up and check on Wendla, it seemed like the right thing to do. Then again, she was hardly sure she wanted to venture from her bed, she was worried how she would find Wendla. Her distress was all too evident, and to see someone once so strong reduced to a quivering child was unnerving to Ilse, no matter how many times she had seen it happen. She did not notice Leon stirring beside her.

"Ilse?" he asked, rubbing his face to wake himself up. When she didn't respond he looked at her, stroking her back with the hand still in place there.

"I didn't mean to wake you." She said softly, putting a hand on his chest, as he looked like he was going to get up.

"But you wanted to go check on your friend," he smiled softly, his eyes still bleary. She leaned over and kissed him, she was to reluctant to let go, as he was so warm. Somehow he always managed to be warm as a furnace. "Don't forget to get dressed." He mumbled, running his hand absently over her bare hip. She swatted jokingly at his hand.

"Where are my clothes!" she said, poking him accusingly in the side. He winced, but smiled genuinely.

"I haven't any idea, I vaguely remember hiding them after you fell asleep." He said, shrugging. All her other clothes, either purchased by Leon or acquired by herself, were in the bedroom Wendla was staying in, haphazardly thrown into the bureau. She smiled at him, tilting her head.

"Why?" she asked, pursing her lips to hide her amusement. She rested her chin on his chest and looked up at him, waiting for him to answer. When he did his voice made his chest rumble pleasantly.

"Because you're happiest when you wake up," He said softly. "And I like to see you happy, so I sabotaged a silent escape." His smile was crooked, and she kissed him again, biting him on the lip.

"I'll just take your clothes." She said, dragging one of the blankets with her as she rolled off the other side of the bed. Leon was laying on the bed laughing at her, but she managed to find some of her underclothes. She took his shirt and pulled it on. It was a dress shirt, and though Leon was slim, he was also very tall, so the shirt hung down almost to her knees.

"Very dashing!" He called as she exited the room, shivering at the cold wood under her bare feet. She waved a hand over her shoulder dismissively, shaking her head. She closed the heavy, wooden door behind her, finding her clothes right after she did. She prodded the slip with her foot, smiling. Leon was a joker, which was quite endearing. The large foyer area was silent, the sounds of early morning foot traffic barely audible through the thick, stone walls. She stopped for a moment to prod the fire, which had died sometime earlier, though the hearth was still quite warm and it felt nice against her frigid feet. It warmed her legs, and after a moment of gathering her thoughts and smoothing her hair, she faced the door to Wendla's room, bracing herself. Tentatively she crossed the room, slowly easing open the heavy door, which creaked, much to her annoyance. Ilse attempted to edge the door open slowly to make less noise, but it squealed in protest with every prod, and she finally shoved it completely open in her annoyance. On the opposite side of the room she could see Wendla's sleeping figure, curled up against the wall in a tight bundle of blankets. Well, at least that had not changed, she always made herself incredibly small and compact when she slept. Ilse stole a quick glance at the clock outside the room before she pushed the door shut once more. It was six in the morning, and she had barely gotten an hour of sleep, but she would survive. With a grimace she turned her attention to Wendla, who needed her more than she needed sleep at the moment. Ilse moved quietly about the room, stoking the fire and putting some of the items that had been knocked asunder back in order. When she realized she was stalling her approach of Wendla she breathed another sigh and crossed to her sleeping friend, gently sitting herself on the precipice of the bed, not wanting to wake her. She studied Wendla's face, which was actually quite blank, but too dark to be completely peaceful. At times her mouth would twitch downwards, frowning. Her hands, which had grown surprisingly thin, were clutched near her chin in what Ilse imagined had been a protective, comforting position before she had fallen asleep. Ilse sat for a moment longer, noticing the puffiness around her closed eyes that had been induced by tears. She thought to when they had been younger, when she had stayed the night at every available moment at Wendla's house. Once Wendla had remarked how Ilse always looked upset as she slept, but now Ilse could only say the same about Wendla. Her stomach pitted as she watched Wendla's face fall in and out of expressions of fear and sadness, Ilse was not used to seeing her so vulnerable. She never had been. Things had changed when Ilse had been forced to leave, but Wendla had only grown more confident in herself, maybe so she could be strong enough to be happy without her best friend, but maybe just because she had grown up having a life only a few steps shy of perfect. Shaking her head, Ilse moved to stand back up so she could leave, and as she did one of Wendla's hands fell limply off her face onto the thick, down stuffed bed. Ilse reached out instinctually to return it to where it had been previously been resting, tenderly picking up the delicate wing, but as she did she her fingers felt a thick, raised bump that trailed across Wendla's wrist. Quizzical, she pushed the sleeve another inch up Wendla's arm, dropping the limb in shock when she saw what was hidden under the long sleeves of the night gown. Across Wendla's wrists were deep, angry red wounds. Ilse gasped in horror, struggling to remain quiet as she examined the torn and twisted flesh. Wendla's eyes snapped open and she stared groggily at Ilse.

"What's wrong!" she asked, sitting up in a hurry. Ilse, who had paled instantly at the sight of the gashes, fought the urge to do something rash, like hit Wendla and demand an explanation. Or perhaps she would just scream. She wished she could do something more than just stand there and stare. "Ilse!" Wendla barked, grabbing her by the hands. "Stop staring at me." She spat finally, letting go of Ilse, who stood there, unmoving.

"Wendla…" she said slowly, biting down on her lip so she could process her words before she spit out something stupid and inane. Wendla was scowling ferociously, but Ilse saw tears beginning to form in her green eyes, which were becoming increasingly less angry and simply more glazed.

"What did you want, Ilse?" she asked after a long, uncomfortably silent pause. Wendla's eyes were fixed on a spot across the room, and she showed no intention of looking at Ilse, who had just managed to close her mouth, which had been gaping in surprise. Wendla was deflecting, hoping to appease Ilse with her flat tone, one that showed no emotion. When Ilse failed to respond, Wendla snuck a peek at her out of the corner of her eye, swallowing to prevent her tears from welling over. Ilse looked confused, shocked, angry, and slightly disgusted. Ilse's face slowly went blank, like she had forgotten what she had just seen.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asked, her voice flat, distant. She was staring at Wendla, who appeared to be pretending she was actually alone. After an uncomfortable moment she cleared her throat and nodded her head, the movement barely detectable. "Well get up and get dressed. Things with long sleeves are in the bottom right drawer." Ilse muttered, though Wendla was glad to see Ilse was going to accommodate her privacy, at least for a little while. Ilse shut the door as she left, and Wendla stared after her. Wendla shook her head now, wishing she had thought of something to say to her friend, anything would have been better than her blank and bitter stare that had all but physically thrown Ilse from the room. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, stemming the flow of bitter tears that threatened to run down her cheeks.

**X**

**"And now, forever, I know  
All that I want is to hold you  
So close"**

**- "So Close" by Jon McLaughlin**

"Translate the following sentence for the class," said the poorly paid, poorly educated, and poorly qualified reformatory school instructor as he singled out yet another one of the dimwitted delinquents who had little to no idea what Latin even was. "Marcus, my friend, is the son of our neighbor." The boy seated in front of the teacher stared blankly and grunted. The boy behind this particular boy, however, slammed his forehead against the desk in disbelief. This was an utter insult to his intelligence. He sighed loudly and shook his head, though the teacher must have heard him, for in a moment all attention was once again on him. "Is there a problem, Gabor?"

"No, sir, there is not." Melchior grumbled through gritted teeth, clenching his mouth shut tightly to refrain from the man's lack of etiquette. He and his classmates back home had always been addressed as _Herr_ Gabor or _Herr_ Steifel to teach them proper manners, yet the man who was supposed to teach manners to a pack of hyenas failed to even extend them a common courtesy. The teacher smiled smugly, though Melchior failed to see why. He knew he would be asked to stand up in front of the class and translate the sentence, which he would do easily and then retake his seat. Just like every other day at the mind-rottingly dull institution. If he wasn't a criminal when sent there, he surely would be by the time he left because of the sheer boredom that needed to be filled.

"Please stand, Gabor." Said the teacher in his horribly annoying nasally voice. Melchior grumbled and stood as violently as was possible, making sure to clatter his desk against the ground and accidentally drop his writing tablet.

"Marcus, amicus meus, fillius est vicini nostri." He smiled sarcastically at the teacher and at the last moment gave the man a small bow.

"That will certainly be enough." Snapped the reedy, equally bored teacher. Melchior thought at first that perhaps he would find an equal in his Latin teacher, a man who was seemingly quite good at Latin when one first encountered him. However, he had been at the reform school no more than two days before realizing the man was also quite stupid. Back in his seat he leaned forward and rested his head on his arms. The bell rang shortly after and Melchior led the charge out the door towards the mess hall. Once seated at a small table in the far corner he breathed a long, angry sigh. He wasn't hungry today. This particular day had been so boring he thought he might physically injure the next man to try to teach him something that had long ago become common knowledge to him. He plucked absently at the sleeve of his blue shirt, which matched his hot and scratchy pants. They only made the place worse. Not only was he trapped inside a building of insidious ignorance, he was trapped there in a hideous woolen, blue ensemble that itched quite ferociously. He rested his head on his arms to drown out the noise of the mess hall and he thought he might fall asleep at his secluded table. He did not sleep well at night, there was too much to think about. Most of his thoughts were consumed by Wendla, why his parents had sent him away, and the death of his best friend, Mortiz. The thoughts about Wendla were the most troublesome, there was no conflict there. He could rationalize his being trapped in the reform school, and perhaps even why Moritz had killed himself, but that was because they were problems that ended in a solution, or at least some sort of identifiable result. With Wendla, however, he was not even sure if there was a problem, and his chest ached when he thought of her. He missed her. When she had stopped writing so suddenly he had fallen into a strange depression. At first, upon arriving at the school, he had considered making friends and working with what he was given. Wendla sent him three letters before she disappeared to him. After sending her his sixth letter and receiving no response he began to shut himself off from those who were technically considered to be his peers. Now, they hated him, but he did not mind. His thoughts were consumed by plans for the first time he was released for any sort of vacation or break. He wouldn't see his parents. He would take the money he had managed to save throughout his short life and he would find Wendla and take her away. No more school, no parents, no rules. At his empty lunch table he fell asleep on top of his bag, almost too wrapped up in his dreams of freedom with Wendla to notice the bell for class go off. He jumped up and darted to his next class. _I'm turning into Mortiz_, he thought as he rubbed his eyes, clearing his head, at least for the time being, of Wendla.

**X**

**"I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks  
I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap"**

**- "Heart Shaped Box" by Nirvana**

Martha Bessel was seated at a small, rickety wooden desk hurriedly finishing a history assignment she had forgotten to do the night before. She was holding a wet cloth over her left shoulder, which made writing quite awkward, as she was right handed. Her father had thrown a bottle at her the night before, and it had cut deeply into her arm. Of course he had yelled at her for getting blood on the floor. Then he had slapped her for not cleaning it up quickly enough. Nevermind that her arm was _still_ bleeding. Her mother had stood demurely in the corner, focusing on a knitting project. Perhaps she thought her daughter deserved to be beaten. _Stupid cow_, Martha thought ferociously. All she wanted to know was what her mother would say if she found out her husband was having an affair. What her mother would say if she found out her husband had been fucking their daughter for almost six months now. Martha didn't know she had snapped her pencil until one of the splinters began to dig uncomfortably into her shaking palm. She laid her head down on the desk for a moment, wincing when she shifted the rag uncomfortably on her cut. She grimaced as she thought of a day with a long sleeved dress chafing painfully across it. She stared at the clock, barely making out the time. Just fifteen minutes after six. She had to be at school in two hours and she sighed dramatically to herself. She had been too terrified to go to sleep. Whenever her father hit her were the nights she could usually expect him to appear while she slept, though now she just did not fall asleep. It seemed less tedious that way, no waking up process for her. Sure, now she functioned like a dead person at school now, and her grades were slipping, but what was the use? She didn't really care, and she couldn't help but giggle in a maniacal, slightly insane manner. Like school would ever be of any use to her! At this rate it didn't like she would ever make it out of her own house. She gathered her papers together. The writing was sloppy and the paper was only halfway done, but she needed some sleep. As she shoved the papers into her bag she heard the front door open, this caused her to almost trip on herself as she dove to blow out the lamp and scramble into bed as quickly as possible. So she had been right in thinking her father had left earlier. Around four she had heard the front door open and close quickly, and the house had been hit by a sudden, almost inconsequential wave of winter air. Her father's low voice echoed through the foyer and she buried herself deep under the covers, trying to slow her breathing, which had risen sharply because of how much she had been startled.

"Wait, so you want my daughter?" she heard her father slur. She reached up nervously and tugged one of her braids. It was her default action when she was frightened. She began to pray rapidly that no one would come into her room, that her father had just been mistaken in what he had heard from the other man. She knew it was a man. Long nights of waiting silently in the dark for an approach had taught her the difference of footfalls between a man and a woman. Almost as if on cue, the door creaked slowly open and her hands began to shake. She saw it was not her father in the doorway, and for a sickening moment she thought perhaps it was a police man. That Anna or Thea, or perhaps Wendla, had relayed her story to the police at last. The smell of cheap wine that preceded him told her it was not.

"Get dressed and come out here, Martha." Said her father from somewhere behind the hulking figure. He was gigantic, at least seven or eight inches taller than her father, who was only a few inches shy of six feet tall.

"Yes, sir." She said meekly, waiting for the door to be shut before she got out of bed. A strange feeling of ill-will grabbed at her stomach, the sinking sensation when a person knows something is wrong, even if they can't place their finger on it. She thought this something was Wendla. Maybe at last she would know where her friend had gone. She, Thea, and Anna had gone to her house several times, but the shutters were drawn and her parents only answered the door once. Wendla was sick, they told them. Very sick. Martha hoped she was alright. She pulled on a nightgown and tied it at the waist, adjusting the sleeve so that it would not fall on her cut. She tugged nervously once more at her braids before sighing to brace herself to reach with shaking hands for the doorknob.

**Please read and review! I really value opinions. In fact, when it comes to writing, I live off of them :)**


	5. Sleepless Nights

**Alright, alright. So I know it's been ages since I last posted, and I'm terribly sorry. I've not been a very together person for the last couple of months, and sadly this story didn't get worked on like, at all as a result. I hope people are still interested in reading it! Please read and review. Let me know what you think! Also, I didn't edit this like, at all, so if there are a lot of mistakes I'm sorry!**

**Please forgive my random absence! I hope this is still being read! Enjoy!**

**"I flee from situations  
When I know that I've done wrong  
But face to face with faith  
He strings me along"**

**- "Have Gun, Will Travel" by The Audtion**

All Ilse had scrounged up for Wendla's breakfast was a few pieces of fried bread. Leon didn't keep much food around, for they ate most meal out, and she hadn't cared enough to actually make the girl a decent meal. It was her silent anger seeping out in a way that was least harmful. And besides, she didn't even know how to cook. She sat across the dark, oak table from Wendla, tapping her hand impatiently against the hard surface. She almost yawned, but she dug into her cheek with the hand her head was propped up on. Only when it began to sting did she realize she had been digging into the flesh since she had sat down. It was a habit of hers to subconsciously hurt herself when she was angry, it was the best way she knew to suppress her emotions. Wendla was eating, picking numbly at the toast, making a point to look no where near Ilse. Ilse opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself. She needed to prevent herself from being too abrasive, too accusatory, but being her typical self she spoke before her thoughts were completely formed in the way she wanted them to be.

"Not to be rude or anything," she blurted suddenly and gracelessly, startling Wendla, who turned her tired, red eyes to Ilse with a faint amusement, or perhaps annoyance. "But what the hell were you thinking!" she cried. Wendla looked taken aback, but Ilse didn't regret her words for a moment. If she couldn't clear the air now there wasn't any saying when she would try to do so again. Wendla seemed to process the question and dropped the piece of toast she was aimlessly tearing to shreds onto the plate in front of her, narrowing her eyes.

"What do you mean?" she muttered. Ilse sighed noisily, childish interest beginning to get the best of her. She may have run away from home and become the village lost-girl, but it didn't mean she had gotten so mature that she couldn't be consumed by her inquisitiveness.

"You know what I mean! You and Melchior? I can't say I'm surprised, but I would like to know who the idea originated with…" she shook her head. Sex seemed much, much more like a Melchior Gabor production than something Wendla would think of.

"I was thinking…" Wendla trailed off, biting her lip. Ilse could see a faint glimmer of happiness in the recollection, and she waited patiently instead of prodding the other girl's thoughts. "I was thinking it was nice to… feel something." She admitted sheepishly and quietly. She blushed more vigorously than Ilse thought would have been possible, and the new reddish color of her cheeks was intensified by the ghostly white of her skin. Ilse detected a faint, crooked smile that read purely of intense infatuation growing on Wendla's otherwise downtrodden face. Ilse also sensed that maybe she had found the right direction to the surface of the ocean Wendla was drowning in. Instead of questioning why she had attempted to kill herself, Ilse decided to perhaps interrogate her on a happier subject.

"Well was it fun?" Ilse asked quickly, stopping herself before making a dirty joke, like how it had obviously been fun for at least Melchior. Wendla's smile became more internalized and she pulled her legs up under herself, which Ilse took as a good sign. Whenever they gossiped or discussed anything of substance Wendla always took that same position.

"Yes, it was. Melchi is…" she trailed off, thinking hard. What was she going to say? Gentle? Sweet? Sexy? She practically laughed out loud at the last thought, she would never say that out loud. She felt scandalized even thinking of saying it out loud. Ilse almost laughed at Wendla's expression. She was like an open book, every emotion that passed through her came out clearly on her face. She actually looked quite embarrassed, which gave Ilse all the more license, in her mind, to terrorize her with more questions.

"And where did you two daring children commit this sin?" Ilse said, her tone mocking as she spoke of sin. Being an atheist herself she naturally didn't believe in there being any sin. Wendla rolled her eyes.

"The old hayloft… the one we used to use as the pirate lair." Ilse made a face.

"Thank for desecrating some of my only good childhood memories! Now I can't think of pirate lairs, I can think of… sex." She said jokingly, snorting when she noticed Wendla flinch in shock at her outright and plain usage of the word sex.

"Shut up." Wendla snapped wearily, though the smile on her face broadened considerably at Ilse's joke.

"But really? Somewhere filled with hay and mold… sounds interesting. At least I managed to lose _my_ virginity in a bed." She said, shrugging. There was only a hint of bitterness in her voice, and she truthfully didn't mind making the joking statement, but Wendla's jaw dropped and she gasped.

"What did you just say!" Wendla hissed, causing Ilse to notice her friend seemed to have developed a fear of speaking loud.

"You heard me, which is more than I can say for you. Why do you keep whispering? No one here cares if you're loud, Wendla." She said gently. She knew there was definitely a reason for the almost inaudible speaking. Wendla rolled her eyes at Ilse, returning her attention to her toast. Ilse snorted again, finding the tension that had been underlying her joking to be amusing. She contemplated falling asleep at the table, and she even laid her head down on it. However, a loud clattering disturbed her. She yanked her head up as if electrocuted and hastily rubbed her eyes. Wendla was staring wide-eyed over her shoulder and she turned quickly, only to see Leon standing there rubbing his face tiredly. She supposed Wendla was frightened because she didn't recognize Leon. "This is Leon." She supplied, smiling at him.

"Hello, Wendla," He said politely, taking a seat next to Ilse. "How do you feel?" he asked. Wendla stared at him, looking oddly contemplative before she answered.

"I feel much better, thank you." She said, her voice low, but with a very prim and proper edge. She returned to picking at her toast and soon an extremely awkward silence set in. Leon preoccupied himself by staring at the ceiling and Ilse watched Wendla. After watching her tear the third piece of toast into sixteenths she finally cleared her throat.

"That's for eating. You need to eat something." She growled. Wendla didn't even bother looking up as she responded.

"I ate one piece. I'm not very hungry." She said apologetically, though there was an underlying sarcastic bite. Ilse made a sharp tutting noise, sounding startlingly like a cross mother.

"I know you haven't had much to eat recently, so you're not hungry, but you really, really need to get some food. You look like the walking dead. Not to mention you're pale as the snow." Ilse reprimanded, shaking her head. Leon, sensing the tension at the table, stood from his chair and smiled.

"There really isn't any food here, I'll go get something for all of us." Ilse stood and followed him to the door, where he pulled on his jacket, which was leather and comfortably worn and nice smelling to Ilse. She handed him a hat.

"Will you see if you can get some blackberry tea?" she asked absently, wrapping her arms around his waist and staring up at him. He cocked his head, confused.

"I thought you hated that stuff."

"I do, but it's Wendla's favorite." She admitted, forgetting the scraps she had shared with her friend a few moments earlier. Leon smiled and kissed her on the forehead, shutting the door quietly behind him as he left. Ilse sighed, smiling. He was a good man. She returned to the table, which had been vacated by Wendla who was standing next to the window, which extended ceiling to floor, watching as Leon, who had arrived on the street, disappeared into the crowd of men heading to their respective jobs.

"Do you love him?" she asked, turning to Ilse after she realized she was in the room. Wendla wouldn't admit it, but she was jealous of Ilse and her relationship with Leon. From what she had seen the two were very in love, and it made her miss Melchior even more. Ilse read Wendla's expression, which was quite hopeless and sad. She looked like a lost puppy. Ilse rolled her eyes at her, crossing to stand by her.

"You're standing in front of the window," she snapped suddenly, grabbing Wendla by the shoulders and steering her away. "Aren't you supposed to be hiding from someone?" she snapped, responding to Wendla's bewildered, indignant look.

"Oh, yes…" she said, lowering her head. Ilse groaned loudly. Had she been too harsh? Had she upset the poor baby?

"Come on, you should take a bath and relax before Leon gets back." She said gently. She took Wendla's hand, coaxing her towards the bathroom just off the hall. When Wendla showed no signs of resisting or paying attention, Ilse turned around, brow furrowed. Wendla was pouting.

"You didn't answer my question." She said softly. Ilse sighed, pulling Wendla into the bathroom behind her.

"You're being very annoying," Ilse said, turning to the linen closet and pulling down a washrag and towel. "We can talk later." She said firmly, pressing the objects into Wendla's outstretched arms. She began to fill the tub with water, turning to leave the room to retrieve a fresh set of clothing for her. She offered Wendla a smile as she passed the counter where Leon's shaving kit lay. As a last moment thought she stealthily took it off the counter, shutting, but not locking, the door behind her. She didn't trust Wendla not to do something stupid.

**X**

**"Laughter  
There is no more laugher  
Songs of yesterday  
Now live in the underground"**

**- "Before the Lobotomy" by Green Day  
**

The door clicked shut behind Ilse, but Wendla also noticed she had not locked the door. She also knew Ilse had a purpose for doing so. Just like she'd had a purpose for removing the shaving kit. Wendla grumbled, thinking about locking the door herself, but then again she supposed she'd have Ilse battering down the door if she did. _She's just worried…_ she told herself. _Besides, you're crazy and you need someone looking after you_.f

"I'm not crazy." Wendla muttered to herself, watching as the large porcelain basin that was the bathtub filled with steaming water. The door opened and a set of clean clothing flopped into the room, tossed by Ilse. They were around the same size, though Wendla was slightly taller. She wrapped her arms around herself and breathed a sigh. She felt sick and trapped and too hot and upset, for a moment she thought about calling Ilse back. While in fact she had become familiar with this same feeling of helplessness and anger she didn't want to be alone. She didn't like to be alone. It clouded her thinking and made her dream up foolish things. This feeling made her want to lash out, to hurt something, and a twice that something had been herself. She felt a few tears fall from her eyes, burning as they ran down her thinned-out cheeks. She shook her head and began to focus on thinking of nothing. It was harder than she thought. With the water filling the tub she quickly removed Ilse's borrowed dress and climbed into the bath. It was scalding hot, but she gritted her teeth and lowered her head underneath the water. When she resurfaced she was gasping, having stayed submerged for a considerable amount of time. Pushing her sopping hair out of her face Wendla grimaced as she caught sight of the red wounds across her pale wrists. As she looked at them she could not find it in her to regret what she had done. It had seemed like the right thing to do, and some part of her still urged her to die, begged for death, but as she came to this determination her hands also settled to her stomach. Her child. She could feel the bruise on her elbow from where she had fallen the night before as she fought to protect the unborn infant. Fresh tears began as she thought of this, as they had so many times before. While the child gave her hope she did not know what she would do once it was actually born. With a despairing moan she buried her head in her hands, wiping furiously at her eyes. _Don't think about it,f_ she hissed to herself, repeating the sentiment over and over again until she found herself comfortably numb.

Wendla must have fallen asleep, for the next time she thought about her whereabouts the scalding water and become incredibly cold. She was shivering as she reached for a bar of soap. It was purple and she assumed it belonged to Ilse. These thoughts were confirmed once she began to scrub her head, as it emitted a strong scent of lavender, one of Ilse's favorite scents. She quickly rinsed out her hair, standing just after she began to drain the tub. Still shivering she grabbed the towel from the chair where Ilse had left it and wrapped it around herself. It was wonderfully soft, but she was still shivering, so she wriggled into the clothing that had been left out by Ilse, which clung to her damp skin. She gathered about all her other articles and moved towards the door, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror. As she drew closer to the door she became vaguely aware of a stinging, aching sensation whenever she took a step. Something deep within her shins made it painful to walk and she set her teeth against the sensation, moving into the hall. She could hear Ilse humming from somewhere else in the expansive loft apartment, the sound echoed eerily around what was for the majority very empty space. Leon didn't seem all too interested in decorating the gigantic home he occupied, Wendla thought. She was unsure of where exactly Ilse was expecting her to go, so she contented herself with wandering towards the sound of her friend. She found herself in the main room, which doubled as a dining and sitting room. There was a door cracked just to the left of the table she had been eating toast at, which was now cleared, and a warm light was streaming through it. She could hear Ilse inside, so she crept tentatively to the door and knocked lightly with her free hand. Before Ilse could respond Wendla self-consciously checked to make sure both her wrists were covered by the dark green dress she had been given to wear. Through the small opening she saw Ilse's shaggy, light brown hair, which was cut-haphazardly as always, hanging down in her face. She was curled up in a chair, legs tucked beneath her, bent over a book. One of her secret obsessions was reading. Wendla had probably been the only person to recognize her as an intense bookworm. Her head jerked up and Wendla was met with a startled, blue-eyed gaze, Ilse's freckled face seemed to take a moment to register who exactly was there, she had been wrapped up in the book. Wendla gave a faint smile at the freckles. Her mother had always told her freckles were unladylike for someone "their" age, which at the time had been thirteen. It was immature, marking childish, silly behavior. Of course, Ilse had always had freckles, not being one for propriety and ridiculous standards and social "laws."

"Come in." Ilse said after a moment, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. Wendla noticed faint circles under them, but a look of happy exhaustion had been Ilse's standard appearance ever since she had fled her home. She was always tired, but she was happier than could be. It was a very small library with two arm chairs, a rug, two walls with books, and a fire place. Ilse had pulled her chair so close to the hearth that she was practically _in _the fire.

"Uh, hi." Wendla said, smiling weakly. Ilse sighed, closed the book, and gave Wendla a very appraising look.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing towards the other arm chair. Wendla nodded and crossed to it, Ilse watched her every step. Once she was seated, Ilse spoke again. "Are you limping?" she asked, concern evident in her voice. Wendla shrugged.

"A little bit, my shins hurt." She said as she sank into the chair, drawing her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. Ilse sighed and stood, moving behind Wendla's chair. Wendla felt it shift and Ilse grunted, a moment later the chair lurched forward so it was as close to the fire as Ilse's.

"Your lips are blue," Ilse explained, causing the slightly confused look on Wendla's face to disappear. She smiled at her, retaking her seat. "Leon should be back soon, he'll take a look at those various… wounds." Ilse said with a frown, eyeing Wendla pitifully. Wendla, who had been staring absently into the fire, turned her attention to Ilse.

"Are they bad?" she questioned softly. Ilse's eyes widened at the childish question, which had been asked in a childish tone.

"Did you look in the mirror? Your face is all scratched up! Actually, are you sure your nerves are intact? Your elbow is bruised, not to mention your wrists…" Ilse shook her head in disbelief, reopening her book, which Wendla recognized as a collection of Greek myths. In the upper-right hand corner of the page Wendla could see a small illustration of a pomegranate and she knew Ilse was reading the tale of Persephone and Hades, her favorite. She though about commenting on the reading selection but in the end decided against it. Ilse herself appeared to be holding back commentary and questions, so she decided to do the same favor. Wendla focused on the fire, staring into the dark red, glowing embers at the bottom that slowly consumed the logs stacked inside of it. She let her mind wander briefly to Melchior, wondering what he was doing, why she hadn't heard from him… her eyes burned at the thought of how much she missed him, and she buried her head in her arms, leaning against the plush back of the arm chair. Bathed in the warmth of the fire, she drifted into sleep.

**X**

**"I moved in the dark  
The room calm and cold  
A quiet hollow  
I am such a haunted soul"**

**- "Don't Wake Me Up" by The Hush Sound**

As soon as the clock chimed seven Martha bolted from her house, school things crammed carelessly into her bag. The homework she had hastily completed the night before was a crumpled mess at the bottom of the satchel, but she could hardly make it away from the house quick enough. Her father's mysterious friend had relentlessly questioned her for half an hour before she was able to muster the courage to make some excuse about being late for school. She had dressed in record time, only fifteen minutes, and flown from the house like she was being chased, and for a few moments she was. The man her father had brought home was dark and terrifying, with a low, menacing voice. He was tall, thin, but he still managed to hold some sort of burliness about him, as if it was impossible for his true strength to be known until he got his hands on you and you could not escape. Martha shuddered and turned the corner abruptly. Thea only lived two streets away, and she was already more than halfway to her house. Usually, Thea did not expect to receive Martha until around eight, as school started at eight thirty, but Martha was itching to escape her house. Martha realized she had forgotten her jacket, and she kicked a snow bank in annoyance, which sent chunks of ice sliding down into her boot, where they would melt on her already freezing feet. Her boot being invaded by snow in turn caused her to howl in frustration, she knew she was in for an absolutely appalling day. Her head ached, as it usually did, from lack of sleep, she wanted to cry, she was terrified from her interrogation, and she was freezing. With a pronounced frown on her face she turned down Thea's street, biting her lip and trying to regain semblance of normalness to her look. She needed to talk to Thea about the strange visitor. The snow crunching under her foot would have normally caused Martha to smile, she loved snow, it reminded her of Christmas, her favorite holiday, but today she was in such a foul mood that the grating sound of the snow being packed tightly to the ground made her want to claw off her own ears. Not being able to sleep at all usually made the girl hyper-sensitive to anything and everything that was even slightly annoying. When she reached Thea's her arms were wrapped around her thin, bruised torso, and she was still frowning when Thea's mother answered the door.

"Martha, darling!" the woman cried, looking surprised by her early arrival and alarmed by her bedraggled, angry disposition. Martha quickly softened her expression, failing to realize that now she only looked sad.

"I'm sorry to arrive so early and unannounced, Frau." She said, ducking her head. She feared that she had angered the woman, who merely clucked her tongue at her and pulled her inside by the arm, unintentionally grasping the wound on Martha's upper arm. Martha restrained the hiss that threatened to escape and smiled, made slightly happier by the sudden warmth of Thea's house.

"What on earth were you thinking! You'll catch your death without a proper jacket on," Thea's mother chided. "I don't know why your Papa or Mama let you out of the house." She said, dragging Martha towards the kitchen, where she shoved a cup of tea into her cold, shaking hands. Martha bit back a sarcastic comment, pretending not to notice that her father had been mentioned.

"If you don't mind me asking, is Thea awake yet?" Martha said suddenly, wanting to avoid talking to her friend's mother, who, even when bearing the best of intentions, was exceedingly annoying to Martha, especially when she hadn't slept.

"No, I imagine she's still asleep. It's only five after seven…" said the woman, staring at the clock for a moment. "Here, take her tea and wake her up!" she said, pressing another cup of tea in Martha's hands and giggling like waking up Thea was going to be some sort of exciting adventure. Martha smiled and nodded her head, sarcasm hidden in the expression. As soon as she had turned she rolled her eyes and pulled a face and being careful not to spill the tea she climbed the stairs to Thea's room. Instead of knocking on the door, and partially because both her hands were full, Martha decided on kicking the bottom of the door three times, in quick succession. Thea's father was already gone, she knew, and Thea was also an only child. There was a clattering from inside the room and a sleepy, confused Thea yanked the door open, letting it fly with such force that it slammed into the wall. After a moment she registered it was Martha and not her mother, which caused her to smile.

"Oh! It's you!" she laughed, taking one of the cups of tea from Martha, pulling her into the room. Thea softly closed the door behind her, looking at the clock on her dresser. "Why are you here so early! Goodness! And you're freezing!" she said, touching Martha's icy cheek. Martha shrugged her hand away.

"Oh please, I'm fine." She said, rolling her eyes at Thea, who was very much a morning person. Thea's face fell as her eyes passed over Martha's battered visage.

"Fine? You didn't sleep," she said, narrowing her eyes so her expression changed to something annoyingly accusatory. "Don't look at me like I'm being some sort of pest, Martha Bessel. You don't know how much I worry about you!" Martha rolled her eyes again, seating herself in Thea's desk chair. She took a cautious sip of her tea, which was not too hot, but it was strong and sweet tasting. Blackberry. Only Thea and one of the other girls liked it… why in God's name was she blanking on who it was? She shook her head, reminding herself that she had to be going totally insane. Thea had turned her attention to the mirror, where she observed dark circles under her own eyes. She sighed and looked at Martha through the reflection. A dark, ominous look was clouding her friend's face. "I stay up well into the night worrying about you and Ilse. And Wendla now, too, I suppose." Thea admitted sheepishly. Martha suddenly recalled it was also Wendla who liked the blackberry tea. That reminded her.

"Not to pass up the only sympathy I seem to get, Thea, but I need to talk to you about something," Martha said, watching as Thea began to brush her hair. "This morning a man came to visit me," she could see Thea's eyebrow quirk in the mirror. "He was a friend of my father's, I suppose. Well, not friend, but he knew him. He said Wendla had escaped." Martha paused dramatically. Thea had ceased brushing her hair and had turned to face Martha.

"Escaped from what!" Thea said sharply. Martha gave a small smile, knowing she had Thea's full attention.

"The abortionist." Martha said, pausing once again. Thea looked ready to slap her.

"The what?" she said, confused and annoyed looking. "Look Bessel, you better quit stopping with your story!" she grumbled, pouting.

"Fine, fine!" Martha said, putting her hands up defensively. She cleared her throat, not knowing how much explaining she would have to do. "Alright, so you know where babies come from?" she said, waiting for Thea to respond. Thea nodded and the paused for a moment.

"Well, not exactly. I mean, I know it takes a man and a woman…" she said, looking deflated and annoyed. Martha rolled her eyes. "Oh, and you're not supposed to make a baby unless you're married!" she exclaimed. This caused Martha to grit her teeth.

"Well aren't you just a walking encyclopedia," Martha snapped. "You're right about the first thing, but for the sake of time and the fact that we're lacking Anna's presence I'm not going to go into detail. All you need to know is Wendla is pregnant. An abortionist ends a pregnancy. Her mother was taking her to one last night, at midnight because they're illegal, only she didn't want them to have her baby so she started fighting them and somehow she got away." Martha gave a small, crazed giggle.

"And?" Thea said, knowing there was more.

"Well this man, he was the assistant to the abortionist, you see. He thought I would lead him to Wendla, but I didn't know where she was."

"And what did your father say about this?" Thea asked, leaning against her dresser and eyeing Martha with worry. Martha's face fell, crumpling in distaste.

"I have to go down to the South End tonight with the assistant," the "South End" was considered to be the bad end of town, and presumably where the abortionist's office was located. "That's where he lost Wendla. He thinks she's some lost puppy that will come wandering out once she sees someone she knows." Martha said with a frown. Thea frowned also.

"It's a school night! You're going to be wandering around the shadiest part of town with some horrible man who steals babies!" Thea said, thinking of how worried she would be all night. That was her curse, though it was minimal. She was always so worried for her friends. For Ilse who had fled, for Martha who couldn't bring herself to, for Wendla who had disappeared, and for Anna, who was so much more naïve than herself that it was painful. Martha sighed, unwilling to correct Thea's impression that babies were only stolen. She would leave that for later.

"It doesn't matter, I'll be fine Thea! Plus, some time out of the house will do me good." Martha muttered as Thea began to brush her hair once more.

"What's the assistant like?" she asked suddenly. "He has to be horrible!" Thea stated with a shudder.

"He's terribly frightening, I think his name was Damien or something of the sort." Martha said, shrugging. After a few more minutes the soothing heat of Thea's room began to get to her head and she stifled a loud yawn, earning a glance from Thea, who was currently doing her hair up in a ribbon.

"Come on, Martha. You're exhausted!" Thea glanced at the clock. "Look, there's time for you to get some sleep." She said, nodding her head towards the clock. Martha supposed she was right, it was seven fifteen. They could make it to Anna's house and school by the first bell if they left the house a little after eight, and the unmade bed, which Martha imagined was still warm, looked awfully inviting.

"Alright, alright," Martha grumbled, crossing to the bed and diving under the covers. Thea had a large, thick down comforter, which left something to be desired in Martha's thin, sparse blankets.

"And I'll take a look at what I'm sure is the travesty you're going to claim is your book work." Martha heard Thea laugh, which caused Martha to smile as she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

**Sorry again for mistakes! PLEASE let me know what you thought of this! I promise to have an update really soon (:**


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